red cap and white trousers, sauntered slowly up and down the plaza, furnishing an artistic element in the picture by the gay colors of his dress. When Michelle and her companions came, in their snow-white attire, set off with the virginal blue sashes and ribbons, the scene was complete. It was a delightful spectacle for the moment that the eye rested upon it.

"We are too early; let us get under the trees," said Michelle to her companions. The three little maidens made sudden movement like three graceful white doves toward the seat back of that on which the lady had sought shelter. The swish of their airy garments aided the illusion: it was like the sound of fluttering wings.

"I saw your papa this morning," remarked Celeste Bardin, the older of Michelle's companions, as they settled. themselves.

"You did? When?" queried Michelle. "At six o'clock, when they sounded the réveille," replied Celeste. "The bugles wakened me up, and I ran to the window to see the Pompiers turn out and salute the incoming guard. Your father reviewed both squads as they stood in line. My dear, he does look handsome in his brave uniform. But he looked, I thought, a little sad as he moved away when the inspection was over and the men had marched off."

Michelle turned her head aside to hide the sudden tear that started as her companion said this. She knew the reason her idolized father seemed to look sad that day. Her mother had told her, and had made her promise before she left home that her prayer at the communion should be offered up for her father's consolation and the return of his faith. This promise was most readily given; Michelle's promises were to her always as

look sad, too, Celeste, if you had to be out, dressed and accoutred, without time to get even a cup of coffee, at that hour of the morning."

The other two sprites could not help laughing merrily as Blanche said this. She was so dreadfully serious in tone and manner. Blanche wondered why they had suddenly grown so hilarious. She could not realize the effect of her Portia-like demureness. Then all at once she suddenly began to laugh, toofor laughter begets mirth even without any apparent cause.

The gaiety suddenly stopped. A dull sound on the pavement interrupted it, and a hurried movement of feet, together with exclamations of pity and alarm. The girls turned their eyes toward the other side of the seat.

On the ground lay the elderly lady whom they had noticed coming in. She had fallen prone, stricken, apparently, by the intolerable heat.

The solemn-looking gendarme suddenly became animated and alert. In a moment he was in the midst of the group, making them all fall back as he stooped to examine the lady's face. "Air, please," he said to the sympathetic bystanders, "the lady wants all she can get."

A neat cartouche box was fastened to his belt. From this the officer took a little lump of sugar, and on this proceeded to pour some drops of liquid from a tiny vial, which was also produced from the box. These little medicinal helps are part of the French gendarme's usual equipment for cases of sudden illness in the streets.

Opening the lady's mouth, he placed the sugar within. In a few moments relief had come. The lady opened her eyes and murmured faintly, "I fear I am dying. Take me home to-”

She could not finish the direction. She had swooned off again. The gendarme with the help of the bystanders lifted her to the seat and then ran across

the square to the Mairie near-by, to fetch the stretcher and get help.

Soon it came and Michelle's two companions were among the little crowd that followed to the Mairie, where there was a temporary hospital. When they returned it was to tell Michelle that the poor lady was past help when brought there. She had expired on the way.

During their absence Michelle had picked up a neat little prayer-book-so small that it had escaped observation as it lay in the corner of the seat in a little fissure. It was open, and as she took it up a couple of cards dropped out. One was a mortuary ticket. It contained the name, "Henri Lamont." On the back was written: "I go to pray for my son's soul to-day, Lady Day. It is the anniversary of his death-killed in a duel. I may be stricken, and if you who find this be a Catholic, I beg for the love of God and our Blessed Lady that you make my wish your prayer to-day, and I shall pray for you. Marie Lamont, No. 7, Rue du Bac."

"Poor soul!" said Michelle as she read the request. "I shall certainly carry out what you should have loved to do." Then she stopped and gasped. "Oh, what do I promise? My God, what shall I do now?"

For the moment she had forgotten the promise made to her mother that morning. As it now flashed back upon her memory, a great fear seized upon her heart. She was overpowered by the consciousness of a sacred and awful duty. Unable to endure the anguish which began to grow upon her over the day's "contretemps," Michelle made an excuse to her companions as they went into the church. She passed around back of the high altar and hid away in a dark corner of the transept to pray silently for help and guidance in what she found to be a fearful dilemma-a thing that concerned her own soul's safety no less than the others'.

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She prayed to our Blessed Lady-the Virgin learning to read. She, too, wanted to learn to read to read the page of duty in this terrible dilemma of her young soul. She prayed fervently and repeatedly. But still no light dawned upon her mind. It was too soon, perhaps. She ceased, and sorrowfully she sought a further corner because it was more in the shadow. the floor of the transept is traced the line of the meridian of Paris, which traverses the site of the church. The mathematician Lemonnier fixed the line, and arranged an opening in one of the windows so that the light from this opening projects a large, luminous circle on the floor. This circle of light moves around with the sun's course, so that at noon the meridian line cuts the aureole in equal parts.

The bright prism caught Michelle's eye as she sat down. She had never been in this part of the church before, and so knew nothing of the strange appearance on the tessellated floor. But she heeded it not, so absorbed was she in the quandary in which she found herself placed by a rash promise. She sat motionless for a long time, listening, unconsciously and rapt, to the sounds of the glorious psalmody rolling from the great choir of St. Sulpice. When she opened her eyes again they rested on the luminous ring. It had moved, she perceived with astonishment; it was now approaching the brass line traced on the floor. Though she wondered a little, she was too much preoccupied to give the phenomenon any thought.

One of the frescoes near-by represented the efficacy of prayers for the dead. On this she fastened her eyes after she had deciphered the inscription. It augmented the poignancy of her grief as she reflected on the possible loss to at least one poor soul caused by her thought

lessness.

Again she became semi-oblivious, and she did not feel the flight of the mo

ments until the swelling paean of the "Sanctus" from the choir burst upon her ear. Then she sank upon her knees and joined in the prayer: she found no words, but only worship. A moment or two afterward she woke up and looked around.

The ring of light was now crossing the meridian line. It appeared to be cleft in twain for a moment as the dark streak bisected the prism. Then the divided colors reunited and the ring seemed, to her rapt and excited fancy, to move toward the fresco of prayer. She closed her eyes and sank overpowered upon a prie-dieu, in an angelic

trance.

The clang of fire-bells startled the worshippers toward the close of the service, but none of them heeded the sound save Michelle. She experienced a shock of terror as the harsh, penetrating notes smote her ear. A vague fear crept over her heart; she shivered, despite the heat of the noonday: why, she could not tell,. for she had often heard the same clangor before. Involuntarily breathing a hasty prayer for lives imperilled, she left the church by a side-door and walked rapidly homeward.

Her mother awaited her with blanched face on the landing. "There has been a great fire," she said, "at the Rue du Bac. I saw the blaze from the windows here. Oh, may God grant that no one fell a victim!"

Michelle thought she would faint. "My father-"

She could not finish the exclamation. "Yes, he was there," cried Madame. "He was off at the head of the corps the moment the alarm sounded. The

concierge told me: she saw him pass by the door, driving at furious speed." The noise of the fire corps returning interrupted the talk. Madame went inside and looked out of a window. A

heartrending shriek from her lips brought Michelle to her side. She, too, looked down into the street below.

Behind the fire-engine and the escape ladders moved a truck. On this a man's form was extended, the face being covered, and over the limbs was draped the flag of France. The medals on the breast of the tunic told the rank of the dead. gallant corps of Pompiers. It was the commander of the

Michelle could not scream. The numbing anguish that seized upon her seemed to paralyze all movement of tongue and faculties. She could only remember the unfulfilled promise to her mother, and she already felt like one of the lost.

Yes, the bolt of death had indeed fallen with appalling suddenness upon that happy home. Soon there came the second officer of the company to announce to Madame Colbert the fact that her husband had met death at the post of duty. He had been struck by a falling fragment of masonry at No. 7, Rue du Bac, which was on fire at the time.

No. 7, Rue du Bac! Michelle started. This was the address of Madame La

mont.

"Was he instantly killed?" queried Madame, with streaming eyes and choking voice.

"No; he lived for half an hour after being felled, Madame. He called for a priest and received the last sacraments of the Church as he lay in a neighboring house."

Madame fell upon her knees in an ecstasy of fervent gratitude to heaven. "Merciful God, I thank Thee!" she said. "Michelle, your prayer was granted," she added, as she embraced her trembling child.

Michelle could not endure the silence any longer. When the officer had taken his departure, she told her mother all that had happened at the church.

Madame was thunderstruck. "It is the hand of God, my darling," she cried. "What I asked you to pray for has been granted. It was pardon and forgiveness

HE tourist who would see Europe would do well to shun its beaten paths, even though he should thereby fail to jostle the crowds who throng the streets of London, Paris or Berlin, for there is a monotonous sameness in all great metropolitan cities, and human nature, gowned, coated and kid-gloved, has no marked individuality about it either on Fifth Avenue, The Strand, Rue de l'Opera or Frederichstrasse.

But there are bits and corners of Europe where human nature is individual and life simple and picturesque. The trouble, however, is that most tourists who plan a trip to the Continent fancy they have journeyed in vain if they, on their return, cannot catalogue the chief monuments of London, Paris, Berlin and Rome; if they cannot talk glibly about the masterpieces of the National Gallery, the Louvre, the Uffizi Palace or the Vatican. Truly, Turner, and Rubens, and Raphael, and Murillo, are great, but

the life around us to-day is far greaterof more worth in its spiritual significance than the story or illustration of any painter. I would rather kneel with a Breton peasant at a "Pardon," or join in a peasant dance beside the Neckar, or listen to the echoing "yodel" of a Tyrolean mountaineer, than catalogue all the great paintings of Europe. Not, indeed, that I would undervalue the great work of these princes of brush and easel, but rather because I know that there is nothing in art but can be found. in life, from its highest tragedy, moulded in tears, to the sunniest smile on Nature's landscape.

A little corner of Europe, quaint, historic and picturesque, is Boulogne-surMer, a northeasterly part in France almost directly opposite to Folkstone in England. It is the chief fishing port in France, and this dowers it, like St. Malo, with an individuality all its own. As subject for poet or painter, the fisherwomen of Boulogne-sur-Mer would be